


Creatures of Habit

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Drugged Will Graham, Hand Feeding, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Episode: s03e06 Dolce, Sharing a Bed, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 09:31:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Written for this Hannigram Tumblr prompt: Instead of trying to eat Will’s brain in Dolce, Hannibal decides he needs time to figure out what to do about him. He keeps Will drugged, and spends a lot of time taking care of him - like when he handfed him the soup. Bathing and dressing him and everything he’s too drugged to do himself. Gentle, but ignoring any protests. Will resents it at first but eventually learns to like the caretaking (or Hannibal conditions him to associate his care with pleasure).





	Creatures of Habit

**Author's Note:**

> this ENTIRE thing is Hannibal's fault. and I was once again sucked in and encouraged to fill a prompt, which I don't think I did as well as it could have been done but it was fun to write this! this takes place after Chiyoh shoots Will and kind of goes from there. there was a lot of Hannibal and Will just shrugging and doing what they wanted.
> 
> enjoy!

To call their location a safehouse would be a stretch – in all honestly, calling it a 'house' at all is very forgiving – but it will do. It's remote, buried deep in wilderness scarcely charted. Chiyoh helps Hannibal gather Will up and bring him there, and then she leaves, deeming her work done. Hannibal doesn't ask where she goes, and she doesn't tell him. They part ways with a smile, faint and familiar. She leaves in the middle of the night.

He secures the perimeter after laying Will down on what might pass for a bed, but in reality, is a cheap cot and nothing more, only usable as a flat surface on which to place Will, and on top of him, blankets. It is not comfortable and Hannibal knows this, and yet he doesn't care – anger, betrayal, they have been twin emotions in his chest for so long, and seeing Will, seeing him smile, seeing him bruised and still so bright, brilliantly burning -.

Will groans, interrupting Hannibal's restless pacing. His fingers curl – wants to reach out, to touch. To bury his fingers in Will's hair, to see his eyes. Will's lashes flutter, a furrow in his brow, his chest heaving weakly. Blood seeps anew from the wound in his shoulder from Chiyoh's gun.

Hannibal prowls closer, sits down at Will's side. Touches his pulse at his neck, finds it weak, but steady. He sighs.  It would be easier if Will's heart simply gave out, but he has always been a stubborn thing – and can Hannibal claim that he would not react, would not tear Will's ribs open and force his heart to keep beating, to keep him here just a second longer?

Will groans again, a weak and hurt noise. It compels Hannibal closer and he touches Will's hair, pushes the sweat-drenched curls from his face. Will's eyelids move as his eyes rove beneath them, seeing something Hannibal doesn't, or can't.

Then, they open. They're dark, black with pain. Will doesn't seem surprised to see him. Maybe he's not seeing Hannibal at all. And yet, he turns his head, plaintive, sweet. Hannibal's heart jumps without his permission, pulse flying down from his shoulders to his hands, eager to touch.

 _Manipulator_.

Hannibal growls, tugs on Will's hair, and stands. "I should end this," he says, to himself, to Will? Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

He paces, half a stride, turns to look at Will again. Will's breathing is unsteady, his lips slick with sweat, with saliva. He licks them, fingers curling – tries to sit. Can't. The drugs Hannibal gave him are still heavy in his bloodstream. He won't be able to move for a while.

Perhaps never again, if Hannibal has his way.

He goes to the bag Chiyoh left, finds more sedative and nods to himself, taking note of his stores. This will keep Will pliant, keep his forgiveness dull and his teeth sheathed. There is food stored away in this safehouse, and a long, winding driveway too perilous for most vehicles, unmarked, uncharted. They are alone here – truly, savagely alone, with nothing but each other for company.

Will's voice comes, weakly; "Hannibal." The sound of his name is like a purr, indulgent, enticing. Hannibal's shoulders rolls, tense up, and he fights the urge to rip Will's tongue out so he cannot speak again.

He turns, regards Will, finds him blinking bleary-eyed at the ceiling. Will licks his lips, and frowns. "Where are we?"

"Nowhere," Hannibal replies.

Will huffs a tired, weak laugh. "Okay, Odysseus."

Hannibal's fingers curl again, into fists, nails dug tight to his palms. He heaves a breath, swallows, looks away from Will. But cannot look away from Will. He tells himself it's survival, an instinct ingrained to keep his eyes on the other predator, the other threat. But Will is not a threat, right now. He is meek, bruised, bloody.

Hannibal sighs, and goes to him. He tugs at Will's shoulders and Will moans, hissing, his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder as Hannibal hauls him upright and plants him against the wall, pillows at his back. He cannot resist brushing a hand through Will's hair again as he parts.

"Be still," he murmurs. Will nods, absently. He must know he cannot fight in this state, so he remains pliant, the mongoose curled up under the porch with one eye open, watching the snakes. When his hunger hits, he will strike, and taste Hannibal's venom.

He goes to the kitchenette and pours Will a glass of water, wipes the edge, and returns to Will's side. Will struggles weakly, turning his face away, but Hannibal grabs him by the back of the neck, forces his chin up, forces him to take water into his mouth, or drown in it. Wants to see Will drown, gasp, with wide eyes and searching hands. Perhaps Will can feel things like need, feel the clawed and desperate, shredded remnants of Hannibal's love – and is it love? It is certainly close to it, he thinks, but something primal as well. Something bone-deep and carnal and Hannibal -.

He stops, pulls the glass away and sets it down on the floor. Will's mouth and chin are wet, his breaths heavy and deep, yet weak, like he's forcing himself into meditation. His lashes flutter, close, open again, and he stares at Hannibal in askance.

Hannibal manages a smile. He drops his eyes to Will's stomach and thinks about which part of Will he would want to eat first – his beautiful, diseased, rabid brain. His bruised liver. His abused kidneys. Every part of Will smells crisp with pain and hurt, like tannin-heavy wine. He would be difficult to stomach.

"Your forgiveness is sharp," he says instead.

Will huffs, a weak, hysterical-sounding laugh. He bats clumsily at his own face, wiping the water off one side of his jaw. Hannibal's hand is still tight on his neck, and though he does not gentle it, he slides it up to thread through Will's hair again and Will growls, half-hearted, or perhaps half-strong. His upper lip curls back, baring teeth that shine.

"Are you going to kill me, Hannibal?" Will murmurs, slurred and soft. He doesn't meet Hannibal's eyes, looks instead to his chest. Touches it with an uncoordinated hand. Maybe he can see what remains of the bloody, shredded organs there.

Hannibal growls, standing, and lets Will go. Lets his touch fall away – it burns, it burns so brightly, Icarus too close to the sun. "Eventually," he says. Then, "Maybe."

Will laughs, slumping against the wall. He closes his eyes, winces and tenses his shoulder where Chiyoh's bullet struck. "Should do it soon," he whispers. "But you won't. Piece by piece." He tilts his head up, sighs, his lips quirking up in a lax smile.

"You think you know me so well," Hannibal says. He's lost control of his voice, and every word rumbles as though snarled. Such is Will's effect on him. "I could slit your throat right now, before anyone finds you."

Will hums, his smile fading, but it's held in his eyes when he opens them and rolls his head, fixing Hannibal with his black gaze again. "You're a creature of habit, Doctor Lecter," he murmurs, and smiles again. His eyes are heavy-lidded, unable to stay open. The drugs and pain will take him under soon enough.

Hannibal doesn't respond, except to prowl forward again, yanking Will until he's lying down on the bed, on his non-injured side. Will winces at the rough treatment, snaps his jaws in a performance of threat. Settles, once Hannibal lets him, and turns his head into the thin pillow, throat exposed.

Hannibal swallows, and cannot resist touching him again. This time, his knuckles graze Will's bruised cheek. "And you're just a creature, dear Will," he replies. A monster, of love and deception and dishonor, a wayward atom sprung off course that will set off a bomb inside Hannibal's chest if he lets it.

He cannot let it.

Will falls asleep, and Hannibal prepares the rest of the space. There is only one bed, but until a routine is formed, Hannibal knows he will not sleep – and if he does, it will be light and sparse, too-wary of the monster here.

Piece by piece. It's an intriguing thought. Hannibal could take his thighs, first, so he cannot walk. Bury the bones in the mattress so he might always rest between them. He could take one of Will's kidneys, take one of his lungs. Take his ribs, two by two, roast them until they are bare of meat. His hands, next, so they stop trying to reach for him, stop trying to pull him in.

Then, his tongue, full of venom and glass. His acidic, poisonous brain. He could hollow out Will's skull, preserve his skin and his all-seeing eyes, his hair, until it decays. Until Hannibal can finally live without seeing his smile.

He sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. He aches, down to the bone, to the heart, to the soul. Will is here, Will is here as he should be, by Hannibal's side. And Hannibal has spent months, _months_ , planning what he might do when he had Will in his claws again, and yet -.

Now, here he stands, paralyzed with indecision like a novice surgeon losing his first patient on the table. Should he stop the bleeding, sew the patient up, and hope for the best? Should he keep digging, rend organs and meat until he finds the cancerous shred of attachment in his own chest, until he can yank it out?

It is not fear, not pride, that wounds a man most. It is indecision. Too much choice, too many factors. And Will, his ever-unpredictable, savage Will, could be the end of him if he allowed it.

He looks to Will, his face lax in sleep, hair a halo of darkness around his pale cheeks and neck. Will is beautiful, every part of him, down to the glass shards and broken bones and viscerally acidic bile in his throat. So innocent. So monstrous, his Will.

But perhaps there is a way to tame the beast. Feed it, clothe it, give it a home and hearth. They have recovered from and moved past so much, their joined fates and destinies spreading out behind them, before them, like the smoking ruins of a fallen city.

He seeks Will in his shadow, searches for his lovely eyes and his wicked smile. The way Will had smiled at him, gun in hand, shaking, trembling, _wanting_. His fingers curl.

'I'm just following my nature.'

He huffs a breath, and goes to his stores. Wine finds its way into a glass easily, and he drinks, if only to calm the sharp edge of his teeth and the rush of his blood. Will stirs again, yet does not wake. Hannibal thinks about wrapping him in blankets, suffocating his senses, robbing him of sight and speech. Thinks about Will taking his last breath, evolving once again, from this world to the next, a fish out of water and learning to use its lungs. He might rise from the ashes, a phoenix. Might burn Hannibal where he stands.

Might reform them both, into a monument of ash and stone.

He drinks again, settles himself to wait and keep watch. Watches Will sleep, until the night passes on and dawn colors the sky outside.

 

 

The smell of chicken soup fills the air, and Will wakes. He's groggy and Hannibal turns to look at him, finds his eyes much too sharp, his muscles obeying his body's desires too easily. He sets his wooden spoon down and goes to the bag of sedatives.

He approaches Will and Will flinches from him, shivering as though afraid. But Hannibal knows fear, knows what it smells like on Will. This is not fear – this is a visceral, bone-deep reaction. A coyote and a wolf with age-old instincts to tear each other apart.

He grabs Will's wrist, shoves the sleeve of his shirt up, and pushes the needle into his arm. Watches Will's jaw go slack, his eyes glaze over. He pulls the needle away, caps it, and puts it back in the bag.

"Are you hungry?" he asks lightly. "I'm making soup."

Will grunts, slithers down on the bed. Hannibal hears a thud, and turns to see him half on the floor, struggling to get his feet under him. He smiles, ignoring Will's struggles, until a chair creaks across the floor just behind him.

He turns, catches Will's hands as Will lunges clumsily at him. He tuts, hauling Will upright and shoving him into the chair, and Will moans, wincing in pain, his head sagging backwards and exposing his neck, his bloody chest. Hannibal eyes it, reminding himself to check the bullet wound, and turns his attention back to the soup.

"A modest offering," he says, scooping some into a bowl and taking a smaller spoon. He joins Will at the table, slides his chair closer until their knees touch. "But it wouldn't do to upset your stomach."

Will growls at him, jerks his head away as Hannibal reaches for his chin, but he cannot go far, muscles too pliant and lax, and Hannibal tugs him forward into a vague slump, smiling when Will's eyes meet his. They're wild, an animal caged. Hannibal's smile widens, used to this look on Will, and he lets Will's chin go, spoons a mouthful of soup and brings it to his lips.

Will presses his lips together, stubborn, and turns his head away, though he winces when the hot metal touches his jaw, soup spilling down and staining his clothes.

Hannibal sighs, and stands. He circles to the back of Will's chair, grabs his chin more harshly like Will is a horse refusing to take the bridle's bit, like a snake he needs to milk of venom. He parts Will's jaws, takes another spoonful, and gently – he calls it gentle, but it is forced – ladles it onto Will's tongue.

Will swallows on instinct, corners of his eyes growing tight in reaction to the heat. Hannibal smiles, resting his nose against Will's hair. Will stinks of sweat, of pain. He will need to bathe him, soon. His fingers curl and tighten at the thought and Will whines, more genuine now.

"You must be starving," Hannibal murmurs, coaxing another spoonful into Will's mouth. This one has a piece of chicken and he lets Will chew, drags his hand down Will's jaw to his throat to feel him swallow, sensing a modicum of surrender in the other man.

Will hums, words slurred. "Is it really chicken?"

Hannibal laughs. "Yes," he replies, and feeds Will another spoonful. "I cannot possibly leave you alone in this state to go hunt for more satisfying meat."

"Pity," Will growls.

Hannibal sighs. "You call me a creature of habit," he says. "And you are right. And yet you seek to disrupt these routines I have at every turn." He pauses to feed Will again, pleased when Will accepts the spoon without protest. "It's very rude."

Will huffs, a strained, broken laugh. "Should I thank you for your accommodation?" he bites back.

Despite his tone, Hannibal smiles. "At least thank me for the soup," he murmurs.

Will swallows another bite when offered, then turns his face away. Hannibal presses his lips together, thumbing through the shine of the first attempt. He brings it to his lips, tasting the salt of the broth, the flavor of the meat. Underneath, Will.

"You can't keep me like this forever," Will whispers. His eyes are heavier now, dark as Hannibal circles back to his place and begins to eat the rest of the soup himself. Will's fingers flex, whiten, relax, muscles disobeying his order to form fists. "Something will give."

"Yes," Hannibal concedes, for he knows this is true. Will called them 'unsustainable'. Will is his ideal, his imago, conjured into flesh, and though Hannibal wants to, he cannot keep Will pliant and sedated forever. Once he's tamed, well. Perhaps.

Will swallows, lets his exhale out in a shaky sigh. "Promise me something," he murmurs, his eyes on the door.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, tilts his head.

"When you kill me," Will continues, "make it painless. I won't make you promise quick. I just…don't want to hurt anymore."

Hannibal sighs, the frayed edges of his lungs stiffening, tightening, to make his breath catch. It takes him a moment to reply; "I don't like seeing you suffer, Will," he says, and isn't sure if it's a reassurance or a warning.

Will laughs. There are tears in his eyes. "No," he says. "Just broken. Reformed. Glass and sawdust."

Hannibal smiles.

Will sighs, and rolls his shoulders once, slowly, like he has to coax the muscles to move. "Will you -?" He stops, growls – a short huff of frustration, of anger. "Will you help me back to the bed?"

Hannibal nods, and stands. He wraps his arms around Will, under his shoulders, and pulls him to unsteady feet. Will is dead weight, sagging, his teeth in Hannibal's collarbone as Hannibal guides him to the bed and dumps him unceremoniously onto it. He tucks Will's feet under the blankets, drags it to his chest.

Eyes the bloodstain and tuts. "We need to clean this," he says, thumbing the edges of his bloodied shirt.

Will sighs, throws himself onto his injured side, back turned away. "Don't touch me."

Hannibal rolls his eyes, amused and aggravated by Will's petulance, and goes back to finish his soup.

 

 

He gives Will another dose of sedative a few hours later, to keep him asleep. Though Hannibal knows he does not have the time and luxury to hunt for his preferred meat, he still needs to gather fresher food, things like clothes for Will and supplies for him – toilet paper, toothpaste, things people don't think about when they're on the run unless they have a lot of experience with it.

It takes him several hours, and by the time he returns to the safehouse, impatience and worry are biting at the back of his neck. He knows all-too-well the kinds of bad things that happen when Will is left alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts are, always, trained on Hannibal. Though in what way, Hannibal has yet to find out. Whether he seeks solace, understanding, revenge – perhaps none of these things. Perhaps all three.

Hannibal enters the safehouse, barely surprised to find that the bed is empty. Will's metabolism is faster than he anticipated. The poison in his blood gives him strength. The chairs are half-cocked, having been shoved to one side, and there's a light trail of flaking, drying blood where Will clearly managed to get out of the bed, and headed towards the back door, which is half-open.

He sighs through his nose, and goes outside. Will is uncoordinated and heavy-footed, his shoes making deep imprints in the slick ground and soft mud. Hannibal follows his trail, finds him a few hundred yards away, stumbling and falling against a tree.

He approaches without hesitation, and Will turns his head to meet his eyes. He doesn't even have the decency to look afraid – merely resigned, like a wayward child getting caught trying to steal from the cookie jar by a scolding parent. His shirt, slick and red as it his, highlights the tremble of uncooperative muscles in his back and shoulders. His knuckles are white, fingertips red, pressed against the tree, sore from bark and branches.

Hannibal tilts his head, lets Will try to take another step, and when Will falls, he lets him. Watches, as Will slides to his knees, letting out a rough, fractured noise, split evenly between a sob and a snarl. Watches him sway, off-kilter, still groggy and faded in his head.

He circles Will and comes to a halt in front of him, hands in the pockets of his jacket. Will raises his eyes, a broken picture of subservience, the same way a collared gladiator might look upon their master. There is hatred there; burning, impotent rage that reminds Hannibal of how he'd looked when they first met. Gone is the squirrelly, twitching man who avoided the eyes and lashed out when someone turned their attention to his neck. Instead, Will is sleek, a hunting cat, a wild animal let out of its cage.

He smiles, and lifts his chin. "Turn around, Will," he murmurs, a soft command.

Will trembles, eyes bright, and ducks his head. Plants his fists to the ground and shakes himself off. "No," he replies.

"Then you will freeze out here. Don't be ridiculous. If you were to keep running away, someone would find you. Someone whose morals are much less fluid than mine are."

Will laughs, high-pitched, and lifts his head again. He looks feral, mud smeared on his cheeks, sweat darkening his hair and making it curl flat to his forehead. Hannibal's fingers tighten in his pockets. He meets Hannibal's eyes, matches him, dissects him, and even though Will is on his knees, even though Will is on the ground and, ultimately, a puppet and slave to Hannibal's decision, the way he looks at Hannibal feels powerful. This is how lab rats feel, he thinks, when a scientist observes them.

Will growls, then, swallowing when he sees that Hannibal has no intention of helping him up. He balls his fists, grits his teeth, and shoves himself upward in a quick, foolish attempt to rise. His shoulder hits a tree at the side of the path, bark cracking off in harsh shreds of pungent wood, too wet to splinter properly. Will snarls, jaw tight with pain, and looks to Hannibal again as though in challenge.

Hannibal smiles.

"Morality isn't what I seek," Will hisses.

Hannibal's head tilts. "Oh?" he asks. "Then what is it, dear Will, that you so desperately seek? What brought you across the ocean, through fields and valleys, to find me?"

Will doesn't answer. It's clear he will not be able to walk back to the safehouse on his own, but Hannibal makes no move to help him. He knows first-hand how sharp Will's claws can be. And so, he herds will like a dog with sheep, corrals him and relies on Will's flinches and stumbling, coltish steps to guide him back to the safehouse. Once inside, Will collapses onto the bed and Hannibal grabs more sedative, pushing it into his arm while Will pants and whines, his eyes tightly shut, every inch of him trembling with cold, with hunger, with pain.

Hannibal hums, shaking his head. "You're not exactly a model example of my caretaking abilities, are you?"

Will laughs, pulling his arm from Hannibal's and throwing it over his forehead. His fingers curl, other hand resting on his chest, his shadowed eyes meeting Hannibal's under the edge of his forearm. He appears as though deep in thought, and Hannibal is frozen, caught in the glacial iciness of Will's eyes. He finds himself, without conscious thought, remaining at Will's side, clothes and supplies forgotten for a moment.

Will presses his lips together, wipes his forehead with his wrist, and settles again. The ice thaws as the drugs take effect, slackening his jaw and making his lashes dip low, casting shadows along his cheeks like arching fingers, eager to touch him. Just as Hannibal is eager to touch him.

"I didn't think you'd actually forgiven me," Will murmurs. Hannibal blinks, crouched at his bedside, and tilts his head. "Forgiveness requires understanding, and you don't – you don't get why I did what I did. How could you?"

"I understand that I might never understand," Hannibal replies. He sighs, reaches out to brush Will's sweaty hair from his forehead. Turns his knuckles to check for fever, pleased to find none. Will is recovering well enough, his body spared infection, but he will need to be cleaned to remain that way. "But you, Will? What is it you're searching for?"

Will closes his eyes, worries his lower lip between his teeth and shakes his head. A tremor runs down him, his exposed forearms breaking out into goose bumps, and Hannibal frowns, and stands.

He goes to the bathroom. There is an off-yellow bathtub that, while certainly not welcoming, appears clean enough. He turns the water on, waits until it warms, and then plugs the bath. He returns to find Will in a fit of half-delirious sleep, his eyes roving under his lids, his breathing heavy and shaky. When Hannibal approaches him and pulls him upright, he flinches, digging weak nails into Hannibal's shirt, seeking to tear.

"Hush, Will," Hannibal soothes, cupping his neck in a brief touch. He takes Will to the bathroom, directs Will's arms to rest atop his shoulders and Will's nails curl, dig in, his arms tighten both in a desperate desire to remain upright, and also like he might be trying to suffocate Hannibal. Hannibal unbuttons his shirt and divests him of the clothing easily, tossing it to one side on the floor.

His hands touch Will's belt and Will flinches, shoving him away. But, since he is using Hannibal as his main support, he has to follow, and Hannibal's shoulders hit the back of the door as Will lunges for him, shoulder to Hannibal's chest, and snarls.

"I said," he says, slurred but forceful, "not to touch me."

Hannibal, in answer, curls his knuckles and presses harshly to the huge blossom of a bruise below the bullet wound in Will's shoulder. Though the touch is blunt, it is harsh, and Will lets out a weak sound of pain, knees buckling in such a way his body can allow, falling to them in a frantic, vain attempt to escape. Hannibal grabs him by the hair and hauls him upright again, turns Will so Will's back is to his chest and shoves them both forward so Will has to brace himself on the grimy-looking sink or risk faceplanting into the mirror. He can't keep his weight up, sags to his elbows against the edge of the sink. Bows and turns his head so their eyes cannot meet in the mirror.

Hannibal fights back a snarl. Always, _always_ fighting him. His hands are on Will's flanks and he wants to squeeze, to tear, to shred Will's skin and expose the creature he knows prowls beneath it. He had seen it, just a flicker in Will's eyes, before everything went sideways and wrong. He knows it's there – he could hear it, at night, when their stars were aligned, howling for him.

Will is lax, too out of it to move, even to tremble. Hannibal wonders, absently, if when he gutted Will, he cut out Will's ability to feel fear. What a freedom that must be.

He drops his hands to Will's belt again, meeting no resistance this time, and unbuckles it, sliding it off and to the ground to join Will's shirt. Will turns his head, snarls at him and shifts his weight, kicks as Hannibal makes to take off his pants and underwear too.

"Don't -."

"Will," Hannibal says, as calmly as he can manage, "you need to bathe. And you cannot do that by yourself."

"Whose fault is that?" Will demands. He surges up, but the motions are clumsy, his hands shake and fingers tremble. He can't keep a grip on anything except the sink, let alone Hannibal himself. It's easy, to catch his wrists and plant them, force Will to the edge of the sink. Would be so easy, to cup his jaw and snap his neck. To put a hand to his throat and slit it and watch him bleed out, filling the basin. Would be easy to shove his face forward, break his nose and forehead on the mirror or the faucet.

Will's shoulders tense, his knuckles whiten. His jaw clenches.

"How will you do it?" he asks.

Hannibal doesn't do the disservice of pretending not to know what he's talking about. He smiles, and nuzzles Will's sweaty, filthy hair. "I can't decide."

"Just like you can't decide whether to do it at all."

Hannibal hums, and hauls Will back by the hips. He practically picks him up, ignoring his protests, and sets him in the scalding water, still clothed from the waist down. Will hisses sharply, wincing, his skin immediately turning pink.

"Fuck, too hot," he growls.

"Yes, well, I could have paid attention to the temperature, but you decided to fight me and steal my attention," Hannibal says mildly. He does go to the faucet, turns the hot tap down and rotates the cold so the stream is still warm, but much more pleasant on bare skin. He tugs Will's feet out of the tub, pulls off his soaked shoes and socks and sets them to one side before he places his feet back into the bath and turns off the water.

Then, he settles on the side of the tub.  It is much too small for someone of Will's size to rest in comfortably, and his knees poke out above the water and it doesn't reach past his heart, but this is better than nothing.

Will's injured shoulder is closest to him, and Hannibal sighs, rising. "Wait here," he murmurs. Though he receives no verbal retort, he can feel Will's glare burning into his back as he leaves the bathroom.

He returns with a washcloth and antibacterial soap, some shampoo, and rubbing alcohol. More specific medical supplies would require time and resources he does not have. He crouches at Will's side and dips the washcloth into the pink- and brown-stained water, tinted an even worse color by the yellowish gleam of the tub, and pours soap onto it, working it into a lather.

He starts at Will's blood-caked wrist, dragging the washcloth in a knot between his fingers, working the dried blood, the sweat, the dirt from Will's forearm. Will's muscles flex and tense beneath him at every touch. It seems like lifetimes and yet yesterday when Will would lean into him, seek Hannibal as a beacon of safety, of security. Now they dance around each other like heathens, heretics, seeking to destroy and be destroyed in each other's flames.

Will shivers, the water swirling around him as Hannibal approaches his chest with the cloth. His other hand twitches, wants to reach out, wants to stop him. "I can clean myself," he growls, though his tongue can barely form the words, and so Hannibal wonders how the rest of his body expects to be so obedient.

But he smiles. His skin is damp from the heat and moisture in the bathroom, and where Will is not submerged, his flesh is pink, mouth-watering.

"I'm also making sure you haven't gotten an infection," he says, and lifts his eyes to Will's. "I would be able to tell, even so early."

Will hums, closes his eyes and turns his face away as Hannibal returns his attention to cleaning Will's arm, his shoulder, his chest. He's so warm, so solid under Hannibal's touch. The last time he'd held Will, Will had been soaked with freezing rain, his warm blood so hot it scalded, branded into place the shape of his betrayal and Hannibal's anger, his sense of loss. This is different as night to day – beyond that. This is the surface of the sun compared to the chilly, unfeeling void of space.

He is gentle as he cleans the wound in Will's shoulder. The gauze and bandage came off with Will's shirt, as Hannibal was not as gentle then, but the wound itself is closed, scabbing lightly. If pulled too hard or twisted, it will be torn open, so he must treat it with care. He dabs lightly around it, careful not to aggravate the raw, red-purple splotch of bruising surrounding it, Will's muscles no doubt tense and sore from the damage.

Will lets out a soft sound, and his voice, when he speaks, is far away; "Chiyoh shot me, didn't she?" he asks.

"Yes," Hannibal replies.

Will licks his lips, quirked up at one side, dimples showing. "Thought so," he drawls, accent turning Louisiana-Southern in a way Hannibal has only heard once, maybe twice before, when Will's tongue was heavy with whiskey and his eyes were wild. "Tastes like her particular brand of protectiveness."

"You were going to stab me," Hannibal says, and wonders how there is no anger, there. Perhaps too much curiosity, perhaps too much fatigue. Here, in this quiet, warm room, he feels drowsy, drunk on Will. Such is his intoxicating presence, the sweet thrum of stubborn life in his veins.

Will smiles, shows his teeth, rolls his head to rest his cheek on his injured shoulder and opens dark, ocean-deep eyes to half-mast. "Yeah," he breathes, sighing the words.

"Why?" Hannibal asks.

Will swallows, throat flexing, and lets out a quiet, exhausted sound. "I…I wanted to end this. Everything. Just like you want to end things now. But I can't, and you can't, and so we're stuck in each other's orbit, flinging insults and wounds and, and…"

He stops, clears his throat, and winces, rolling his head again to blink bleary-eyed at the ceiling. His eyes are wet, and when he blinks, the wetness wells, fills at the corners, trails down his cheeks and Hannibal watches, rapt, every part of him fine-tuned to hear the soft, barely-there sound of Will's whine.

Hannibal lets him have his silence, the only sound the water as it swirls and drips around his hand, from the cloth, down Will's chest. It's turning brown and pinkish, darker now, with Will's blood and the dirt as Hannibal washes it away.

Will sighs, and his arms twitch, and drop from the sides of the tub, splashing heavily in the water, and he lets out a grunt of frustration. Hannibal smiles, and shifts his weight, wrapping his free hand through Will's hair and tugging him forward, until his spine is bowed and his head hangs limply above the surface of the water.

He cleans Will's back, noting the exit wound with more bruising. He is careful with it, gentle on Will's shoulder, and there are other bruises here, too, older ones, no doubt from him coming into swift and unrelenting contact with the train tracks. He flattens his free hand on Will's spine, gently wiping him down, and then he squeezes the cloth, wrings it out, and sets it to one side.

He takes the shampoo and pours a thick dollop of it onto his palm, and begins to wash Will's hair.

Will trembles, his eyes closed, water dripping off his dark, flat hair and the tip of his nose. "Is this a new form of therapy, Doctor?" he slurs, and though the words are meant to be biting, Hannibal is sure, they come out soft and weak. Will's neck muscles twitch and tense as Hannibal cleans him, gently rubs his fingertips along Will's scalp, his nape, making sure to gather all his hair into the lather. It drips down his shoulders to mix with the water.

Hannibal smiles. "How do you mean?"

"Kill 'em with kindness?"

"I would agree with you," Hannibal replies lightly, "but you do not see this as a kindness."

Will huffs a laugh, his hands limply swirling in the water before they rest on his knees and tighten. "No," he murmurs. "You touch me like you might season a roast."

Hannibal's smile widens, faint and fond. "If I wanted to eat you, Will, I would have."

But is that true? Can he truly say that he doesn't want to? Perhaps the acidic burn of betrayal and anger in his chest can only be soothed by the tender meat of Will's. Maybe he must eat, consume him in his entirety, to own him as he wants to.

That train of thought in his head sounds like Bedelia, and he swallows it back.

"Then what are you doing?" Will demands, still soft. And isn't that the million-dollar question?

Hannibal hums, and pulls his hands from Will's hair, rinsing them in the water. He stands, and pulls the plug between Will's feet so the water starts to drain, and turns on the shower instead, removing the showerhead so that he can rinse Will down.

Will doesn't move, but shivers as the warm water runs over his shoulders, and Hannibal tilts his head back, one hand protecting his forehead as he cleans Will's hair. Hannibal can feel Will's eyes on him, bleary and unfocused but trying to see. Always trying to see.

"You're the one with the gift of understanding," he says, after a long period of quiet. "What do _you_ think I want?"

Will smiles, baring his teeth. "I think you seek vindication," he replies. Hannibal pauses, head tilted, but recovers and sets to the task of rinsing the rest of Will down, so no more lather and soap clings to him. Hannibal purchased unscented things by design, seeking that, when he smells Will, he will find him unmarred by anything fake, anything chemical. Stripped to his bones.

"Vindication," he repeats.

Will nods, head bowing, neck too weak to keep himself upright when Hannibal takes his hand away. He turns the shower off and reattaches it to the wall. Will reaches for him, allowing Hannibal to help him upright as he stumbles over the edge of the tub and lands on unsteady feet, soaked and dripping. His remaining clothes cling to him, his strong thighs and shaking legs.

Will leans into him, knowing that he must use Hannibal for support while so heavily drugged. Hannibal is glad that the sedative isn't affecting his power of speech – he does not like the idea of seeing Will comatose, uncommunicative. Their talks have always been so invigorating, so interesting. Perhaps it would be easier if Will could not speak, could not taunt and tease and manipulate, and yet -.

"My existence validates yours," Will murmurs, lifting his head, nose touching Hannibal's jaw as Hannibal helps him out of the bathroom and towards the bed. The air in this room is much colder and Will's bared skin pebbles with goose bumps, and he shivers and clings more tightly to Hannibal. "Becoming what I am, becoming what you think I should be – you want to see if it's still possible."

Hannibal lays him down on the bed, eyeing the thin blankets, the wet cling of Will's clothes. He sighs through his nose as Will rolls, adjusting awkwardly to a position more comfortable on the bed.

Hannibal sits at his side, his eyes trailing idle up Will's uninjured arm. Will's fingers twitch, and their eyes meet, and lock. They're still so dark, and feel like a brand on Hannibal's skin.

Hannibal swallows, presses his lips together. "And is it?" he asks, and wonders how he can feel so vulnerable like this. Will is drugged, weak, no threat to him, but he is always a threat to Hannibal. Has always been, will always be.

"Is it," Will repeats, not a question. A sigh. "I don't know," he finally murmurs. "And I don't think you know, either. This is…uncharted territory, Hannibal."

He says Hannibal's name almost fondly, and there's a shadow of a smile on his face.

"That is true," Hannibal concedes with a solemn nod. "I harbored so much anger for you, Will, and yet, when I knew you had come for me, I…"

He stops. Thinks of Anthony. Thinks of the heart he left behind.

"Our positions are reversed," Will whispers. His eyelids grow heavy, his speech soft. "You, the unknowing, the instinctual. And yet I feel like I have never understood you more." He turns his head away, a slow roll that looks as though it takes all his strength. Throat bared, inviting, and yet Hannibal knows if he were to accept that invitation, it would be a foolish mistake. "I went to your home, where you left Chiyoh. Where you left that man."

Hannibal frowns. He recalls, vaguely, his prisoner. Has not thought of him for many years. "I would have thought him dead by now," he replies.

Will huffs a laugh, that sounds warm and light and loving. "He wasn't when I got there," he murmurs. "When I left…"

Hannibal freezes, blinks. Swallows. "Did you kill him, Will?"

Will's voice is heavy, now, weariness pulling him under. He shivers, clothes sliding wetly along his legs as he shifts his weight again, and lets out a quiet hum. "I made him into a dragonfly," he whispers, and sounds faraway, dream-like. "A monument of ascension."

"Your ascension?" Hannibal says. There's something frantic in his chest, something clawed and howling, telling him to reach out, to _reach_ , to touch. He wants to feel the thrum of Will's heart, wants to see if his hands burn with the passion of a killer.

Will hums again, his eyes closing, his breathing evening out in sleep. Like this, flushed, vulnerable, he looks so beautiful, so utterly captivating as he always has. Hannibal wants to drink the water from his neck.

"Will," he whispers, and gently pats Will's face, making him stir. Will's brow furrows and he turns his head with a huff of complaint. "You'll catch a chill, in these wet clothes. I need to redress you in something dry."

Will groans, eyes remaining closed, but his frown deepens. "No," he says weakly, good arm flinging itself in clumsy protest and landing on Hannibal's thigh. "No."

"Will," Hannibal says again, sighing. "I'm a doctor. I've seen the human body before. I only want to keep you healthy."

Will sucks in a breath, lets it out in a weak whine.

Hannibal sighs, and stands. "After all this time," he says, shaking his head, "after everything we've been through together, do you think I would take such crass advantage of you?"

Will grunts, words soft; "You shoved a tube down my throat and fed me an ear," he says.

Hannibal smiles. "To further my own designs, yes," he replies. He grabs a pair of sweatpants from the pile of clothing he'd gathered for Will and returns to his side. "But have we not established that my desire, at this point, is to see you realized? That requires you to be healthy, and whole." He sets the sweats down at Will's feet, notes how Will trembles and his foot tilts, seeking the dry clothing. "I'm merely doing what's best for you."

"What's best for me," Will repeats, bitterness touching the edges of his voice. His eyes manage to open, finally, and he fixes Hannibal with a dark, low-lidded gaze. He huffs, and shows his teeth, but there is surrender there, no bulge in his jaw, no tension in his shoulders. His body cannot resist the pull of sleep for much longer.

Hannibal tilts his head. "Would it be easier if I waited until you were asleep?"

Will growls, fingers curling at his sides, and he sucks in a heavy breath through his nose. "Just – fine. Just do it."

Hannibal nods, accepting that it is all Will shall allow him, right now. Maybe, with time, he will lose the caged-animal energy, his hackles will flatten, and his lips will once again hold back his teeth. He puts his hands to the button and zip of Will's pants, frowning when the drying fabric clings and protests being moved.

He tugs them down, fingers curling in the edges as he lifts Will's hips, then his thighs, and peels them off his legs. He discards them on the floor, to be addressed later. Will's underwear is dark with moisture and leaves little to the imagination, but Hannibal doesn't let himself linger, feeling Will's eyes on him.

It's like a challenge. An unnecessary one – though Will is attractive, in his current state he isn't desirable to Hannibal. There is no satisfaction in the physical conquest of someone unwilling. He pulls them down and off as well, and grabs the sweatpants, settling into place at Will's feet. He unfolds them and bunches them up so the holes for the feet are almost at the waistband, and takes Will's left ankle, first, threading his foot through. Then the right, and he stands, carefully working them up Will's calves, over his knees, his thighs, and finally settling on his hips, slung low to keep the sharp jut of his hipbones and the dark scar Hannibal left in his gut on display.

Will lets out a breath, having held it the entire time, and Hannibal smiles when he sees Will finally relax, his fingers and shoulders losing their tension, his eyelids drooping. Hannibal goes back to the bag and gets a sweatshirt, and returns to Will.

He cups Will's good shoulder and forces him upright, lets him work his hands into the sleeves and pulls it over his head as the fabric naturally slides down Will's arms. It clings to him, since his skin is still damp, and Hannibal carefully tugs the sleeves down to Will's wrists, down his back to cover every piece of bared skin.

He lets Will settle again, gently, two pillows below his head so that it's more comfortable, and pulls the blanket over him.

Will sighs, rolling listlessly onto his side so he can watch as Hannibal gathers his wet clothes. The shirt is a mess and he throws it in the garbage can by the kitchen entrance, and hangs the pants and underwear over the back and armrests of one of the chairs to dry.

Through it all, Will watches, sharp-eyed and still. Hannibal reaches into the bag with the sedative and takes out a fresh needle, filling it with another dose.

Will's face tightens at the sight of it, but he doesn't move when Hannibal returns to him, sits at his hip, and pushes the sleeve of his sweatshirt up to expose the vein at his elbow. "You drug me like a horse," he says quietly. "But this would, at least, be a gentle way to die."

Hannibal smiles, injecting the drug. They both know that, if Hannibal were to change his mind and end Will's life, this method would not be one for consideration. It is too soft, too sweet, and altogether too lackluster for men like them.

Will closes his eyes, a crease in his brow as the sedative makes its way through his body. Hannibal pulls the sweatshirt back down and caps the needle, throwing it away and returning the sedative to his bag.

"Hannibal," Will whispers, and Hannibal turns to him, startled at the sound of his name. Will presses his lips together, lets out a frustrated whine, and says; "Do you think it's possible? Peace, between us?"

Hannibal swallows, for he does not know the answer. "You have always been unpredictable," he replies gently. "Following that knowledge, I'd argue that yes, it is." He returns to Will's side, sits, and cards his fingers gently through Will's hair.

Confesses, intimately; "I'd like it to be."

Will's mouth twitches, though whether it was meant to be a smile, or a frown, Hannibal could not say. Will's breath heaves, stutters, and he turns his head into the pillow. He doesn't reply before sleep takes him under.

 

 

When Will wakes, Hannibal takes him to the table and feeds him more of the soup, spoonful by spoonful, as well as grapes, and pieces of cold-cuts from the deli he purchased. Will doesn't protest, and seems ravenous, devouring everything Hannibal offers him. Though it is by no means like the dinners they shared together in Baltimore, it is intimate and familiar, and fills Hannibal with something he dares not call hope.

 

 

"This dragonfly you made," he murmurs, and Will lifts his head, eyes unfocused and heavy, but when their gazes lock, he grows sharp. "Did you feel with him the same zest, the same frantic need to complete your work?"

Will smiles, shakes his head. "No," he replies, and Hannibal tilts his head. "I knew you might never see it. Never know about it. It was the difference between preparing a meal for guests and eating just for yourself. It satisfied my hunger, but…"

"There was no audience," Hannibal finishes, and Will sighs, nodding. "And did you feel that same quiet power, as you did with Hobbs? With Randall?"

Will swallows. He's back on the bed. Hannibal managed to gather more blankets, as well as a sleeping bag, to wade off the cold. His own rest has come in fits and starts, sitting upright in a chair, away from Will. Hannibal is perched at his hip, watching Will breathe, watching the shadows move within his eyes. The creature there is prowling, aggravated at being restrained and sedated. Hannibal has not given him another dose for some time, and so Will moves as though very tired, but he can move. It will be a freedom Hannibal allows sparsely, but must allow, if his stores are to last.

Will drags a heavy hand over his face, blinking slow. "Yes," he says, confession-soft. "But…"

Hannibal waits, and yet Will says nothing more. He looks uncomfortable.

"What is it, Will?" he asks, breathless with anticipation.

Will growls, grimaces, and glares at Hannibal when their eyes meet again. "Why does it matter so much?" he demands. Hannibal smiles, reminded of Will's prickly demeanor when they first met. Though, it is a sign of regression, and his satisfaction is short-lived at that realization.

"I'm seeking to understand, I suppose," he says lightly. "You said yourself, this is uncharted territory. One of us may get lost if we do not communicate as openly as we can."

"You seek to find some weakness in me," Will says. "So that when you deign to let me move again, my mind is still broken. Still yours to mold and reform." Ah, Will. Clever as always.

"And you still deflect," Hannibal says, unable to keep the pride from his voice. "So ashamed of how you feel. I confess I had hoped to take that out of you."

"With your knife?" Will hisses. Hannibal's eyes drop to his stomach, and he sighs.

He turns his face away. "I behaved rashly," he murmurs. "I…. I wanted to hurt you, Will. As grievously as you had injured me. But again, you're right; I cannot end this. I cannot end you."

Will is silent.

"We could have been happy together, the three of us," Hannibal continues, and looks back to Will. "You, me, and Abigail." Will flinches at her name and Hannibal feels an echoing pang of heartbreak, just behind his ribs. "But you made your choice."

" _You_ made my choice," Will replies.

Hannibal considers that, watching Will as Will watches him. Then, Will winces, lets out a short huff of frustration, and his cheeks turn pink.

He drops his eyes, and looks away. "I have to use the bathroom."

Hannibal nods, and stands. He helps Will to his feet, somewhat pleased when Will manages to stand without him, though his hands ache and his chest feels tight without Will's warmth and strength so lax and pliant in his arms. He guides Will to the bathroom and Will curls his fingers in the edges of the doorframe and fixes Hannibal with a very, very stern look.

"You are _not_ helping me pee," he says.

Hannibal huffs a laugh, smiling, and holds his hands up in playful surrender. "Suit yourself," he murmurs.

Will nods, takes in a harsh breath, and stumbles his way into the room as though drunk. Hannibal lets the door close, and sighs, entertaining himself with straightening the bedclothes and unpacking some food from the fridge in preparation for dinner.

After a moment, he hears a crash, and rushes to the bathroom, flinging the door open. Will is there, panting, both hands locked against the edge of the sink. The mirror is broken, sprinkles of glass around the sink and the counter, and Will has the washcloth wrapped around his right hand, shielding his knuckles and palm.

In it, he holds a shard of mirror.

He turns his head, slowly, fixes Hannibal with a cold, determined look. Flexes his jaw. His shoulders roll and Hannibal sighs inwardly, though his expression doesn't change. Will's eyes are wild, raking him up and down, and the knuckles of his left hand are white on the edge of the sink.

Hannibal takes in the tremble of his arms, the way his knees are locked to stop him sagging. The effort of breaking the mirror has colored his hair and face darkly, and he's sweating, clothes damp at the small of his back and under his arms, clinging to his knees.

Hannibal nods to the shard. "You have one chance," he says. "Make it count."

He turns, and heads back towards the kitchen. He does not hear Will follow, and busies himself with unwrapping a serving of ground beef, which he places in a pot and begins to warm on the pitiful excuse for a stove.

It feels like an age, a century of Purgatory, before he hears movement, and turns his head to catch Will in his periphery, his steps slow and deliberately measured so he doesn't fall, forearms braced on the doorframe, the wall, the opposite wall, and then the chairs as he approaches Hannibal. Hannibal turns more fully, not sure if he's surprised or not when he sees that Will has discarded the mirror shard, and the washcloth, leaving it in the bathroom.

Will comes to a stop by his side, sagging against the kitchen counter, breathing heavily with the strain it took to force his body to move so far without help. Hannibal hums to himself, stirring the meat as it starts to sizzle and turn grey.

"My power," Will breathes, "and my sense of it are too thoroughly linked to you, to be satisfying in your absence."

Hannibal tilts his head towards Will, showing he's listening, but does not give Will the satisfaction of eye contact. They are reversed – Will desperately seeking, and Hannibal pulling away. How often has he extended the fishing line of friendship, only to find his lure too mediocre, or his fish too smart, too wary? Will would benefit greatly from learning what that is like.

Or maybe he does, already. Too-well.

"So," he says mildly, "that is why you won't kill me."

Will nods, once, and Hannibal looks to him, finds his face a delightfully pained mask of surrender, of submission. "It is a terrible thing," Hannibal says, "to lose that sense of self-ownership. To know that the thing you hate and fear the most is also what makes life worth living."

"I don't hate you," Will says, and lifts his eyes. He swallows. "Do you hate me?"

Hannibal smiles, and sets the spoon down. He reaches for Will, finds that he does not flinch – rather, he leans into the touch, cheek to Hannibal's palm, and shivers, sighing gently in something warm and welcoming. Another manipulation, maybe – but Hannibal doesn't care. He has ached to hold Will like this again, craved it like fine wine and good food, and now that it's here, he wants to gorge himself on it.

"No, my dear Will," he says, and Will's entire expression changes, softens with pain, something like longing if Hannibal dared let himself think it was. "I don't hate you. Truthfully, I don't think I can."

Will sighs. The smell of the meat nearing readiness draws Hannibal's attention, and he reluctantly pulls his hand from Will's face, stirring it to prevent it burning.

"Do you need to rest some more?"

Will nods. "I'd like to lay down."

Hannibal nods. He lowers the heat to give himself time to help Will to the bed, and he does, noting with pleasure how Will leans into him despite his relatively able body. He rests his sweaty forehead to Hannibal's shoulder, lets Hannibal loop his hands around Will's arms and help him to the bed, lowers him down and covers him with the blankets and sleeping bag.

Will frowns at it, turning his head. "Where have you been sleeping?"

Hannibal smiles. "In a chair, mostly."

Will shakes his head, and huffs. "That's ridiculous," he mutters.

"Are you suggesting an alternative?"

Will bites his lower lip, cheeks coloring a lovely, delicate pink. "I think the bed's big enough for both of us," he says, and turns his head to look at the wall as though considering the space. "If you promise not to gut me in my sleep."

"I will if you will," Hannibal replies, smiling.

Will laughs, eyes turning bright with uncharacteristic joy. "Deal."

Hannibal smiles, and tucks him in. He doesn't resist touching Will again, now, with this new intimacy between them. He gently pushes Will's hair from his forehead, cups his cheek, and sighs, pulling away.

"Get some rest," he says. "I will wake you when dinner is ready."

 

 

He prepares a modest offering of the cooked ground beef, thickened with potatoes and cheese, and sighs, wondering when he might have something resembling a real kitchen again. Their days together have stretched on, and he feels like a new man, a changed one – Will's presence has softened something in him, and though he is not the man he was before Will's deception, he thinks he can see, in his reflection in the broken mirror, a lingering trace of him.

He cleans the bathroom, throwing away the glass, and rouses Will for the meal. Will can use a fork on his own, now, though his movements are shaky and slow. They eat in silence, and it is companionable, comfortable.

He decides, over that meal, that whatever else happens, he will keep Will. Will's anger, his fire, is tamed, burning as embers. He might roar again, if given incentive, but Hannibal is sure that, should that happen, it will not be directed at him. At the moment, it's all he can ask for.

He sedates Will again, just a small dose to get him to sleep, and showers, unwilling to extend this tentative companionship enough to trust Will not to try and flee, or attack him again in such a vulnerable moment. He redresses in lounge pants and a t-shirt, leaves the towel to hang, and comes back to the room to find Will in bed, fast asleep, just how he left him.

He tilts his head. Will has placed himself close to the far wall, and though the bed is by no means very large, he thinks there is space there for him.

He goes to the bed and lifts the blankets, sliding in behind Will. Will stirs, letting out a half-hearted rumble, but settles when Hannibal does, with a sigh. Hannibal must lie on his side, there isn't enough room to sleep on his back, and he sleeps facing Will, his nose a scarce space from Will's soft curls. Underneath the blankets, the air is exceedingly warm and welcoming.

The night is cold, winter touching her fingers tentatively to the threshold of the door. With no fire, the only warmth is Will, and Hannibal seeks it, no further thought in him that the instinctive need to share heat as a matter of survival.

Will's shoulders tense, and he sucks in a breath. Hannibal doesn't know if he's still asleep, or reacting to something in his dreams. Hannibal hopes he doesn't dream, isn't having nightmares – he meant what he said before. There is no delight to be had for him, seeing Will suffer.

He closes his eyes, presses his chest to Will's back, and settles his nose in Will's hair, breathing in his scent. He smells of the woods, the wild, faintly sharp with old sweat, but not unpleasant. There is no fevered sweetness, no infection from his wounds, no terrible disease turning his brain to mush. No aftershave, or perfume – just Will. His sweet, wild Will.

Hannibal falls asleep, and it is the best night's sleep he's had in months.

 

 

They wake in the same position. Hannibal's hand has found its way to Will's stomach, gently resting there, his face still buried in Will's hair. He gives a faint sound of apology, drawing his hand back, and  Will turns to follow him. Their eyes meet, and Will's are bleary, but with the aftereffects of sleep, not with the drugs. Hannibal's hand freezes, above the scar.

Will offers him a smile, and it's somewhat shy, tentative. Warmth has turned his cheeks and neck pink, ruddy with the humidity, and his eyes are a bright, lovely blue. There's no trace of that feral edge Hannibal has come to expect, and in the wake of its absence, he feels frozen.

Will bites his lower lip, drops his eyes, lifts them again. "Better in the bed?"

Hannibal nods. The rest of their bodies were pressed intimately together, and now, pulled apart, he feels feverish and cold all at once. Will swallows, the flex of his throat drawing Hannibal's gaze, and he sucks in a deep breath, turning further so that they're facing each other fully. As a result, Hannibal's hand ends up spread out over his flank, wide and warm, seeking touch.

Will's eyes remain on him, calm as undisturbed lakes. No fear. No hate. Was it hate Hannibal saw before, poison and venom, or simply the actions of a wild creature, chained and bound and now, let free, seeking trust and gentleness? How different things could have been, if Hannibal had been sincere in his kindness from the beginning, honest with his devotion. Will might have chosen him, that time.

Yet, in the wake of betrayal, of pain, of anger, Will followed him. In softness and care, he remains.

Not by choice. But was it ever about choice, or fate? Destiny and inevitability entwined?

It is something, he supposes, that only Will can decide for them.

Will shivers, biting his lower lip, and Hannibal tightens his hand in answer, desperate for the flex of Will's ribs, the soft give of his waist. He's skinnier, now, underfed and abused. Hannibal would see him feast, a creature of gluttony and hedonism, just as he is.

Will presses closer, just an inch, but in such a small space it feels like he's leapt a mile. He ducks his head, forehead touching Hannibal's chin, and sighs, his fingers curling against his chest, knuckles brushing Hannibal's t-shirt.

The ache is unbearable, makes Hannibal's mouth dry and his throat feel tight. He closes his eyes, tilts into Will, allows himself to be pulled like a meteor to Earth, to crash where he may. His hand slides up Will's flank, tucks under his arm and Will trembles against him, so quiet, almost skittish. But skittishness implies fear – there is no fear.

Rather, resistance. The internal kind. Wanting something so much and forcing to hold back.

Then, Will speaks. His voice is hoarse, throat wrecked with emotion; "We can't stay here."

Hannibal sighs. What had he expected from Will? Not that, but he's a practical man, wields emotions inside himself towards reason and repression. He shakes his head and, gently, ducks down, lips brushing Will's hairline. The tremor that runs down Will's spine is mirrored in Hannibal's own.

But he only says; "I know." The possibility of all of Europe feels expansive, vast, with Will in his arms.

Will's breath hitches, sorrow-filled, and his fingers curl in Hannibal's t-shirt, so light. Not pulling, but like he wants to. Hannibal puts his hand gently over Will's injured shoulder, rubbing the burning-hot wound with a soft touch and Will whines.

"I can't go back," he says, his voice thick. "I can't, _God_." He lets go of Hannibal's shirt, one hand flattening his own chest, and shakes his head frantically. "There's an anchor in my chest, weighing me down. I feel like I'm drowning."

The water is no longer his home. Within it, he cannot breathe. Hannibal desperately wants to haul him out.

He lifts his head and Hannibal cups his face, and Will searches him – reaching for him, bones and heart and soul. "Take it out," he begs. " _Please_ , Hannibal. Take it out."

Hannibal can feel the need in him, like it's his own. He wants to soothe, to placate, to draw Will to his chest and whisper 'I'm here, I'm here, drown in me instead'. But his mouth is too dry, his tongue struck mute.

So he cups Will's face, slides a gentle hand into his hair, and kisses him. Will gasps, pulling back, his eyes wide.

He touches trembling fingers to his lips, pale, and then his fingers curl, and he reaches for Hannibal, tugs on his shirt and slides closer. Their mouths meet again, desperate and heavy and the way Will opens for him, parts his jaws and lets Hannibal's tongue slip inside could be a feast all its own. Will hisses, his shoulder aching in protest at how tense it is, and Hannibal seeks to soothe, flattens his hand gently on Will's neck and kisses, kisses, until there is no more air, yet he doesn't stop.

Will lets out a soft, plaintive sound, tugging, _tugging_ , arching closer as best he can. His teeth meet Hannibal's bottom lip, nip at a flirtatious attempt of a bite, and Hannibal growls, his free hand curling around Will's neck on the other side, holding him still as they part, just for a breath of air, and collide again, cliffsides and meteors and avalanches.

Will's pulse races beneath his hands, steady and strong, at a wild gallop, a stallion released from the starting gate. Will lets out a quiet moan when they part again, licking his lips, pupils wide and dark, eclipsing the blue of his iris.

Hannibal rests their foreheads together, and he is not unaffected. His chest is warm, heart pounding so loud it deafens him to anything that is not Will – his unsteady breaths, his soft whimper of want, the rush of his pulse under Hannibal's hands.

One more. One more kiss. One more touch – one more look into the feral desperation in Will's eyes.

One more line, cast out.

"Stay with me," Hannibal murmurs. Will blinks, lashes dark, and trembles. "Whatever else, just stay." He tucks his thumbs blow Will's jaw, measures the pound of his heart, the way his throat flexes as he swallows and sucks in another breath.

Will's brow creases, and he lowers his eyes. It's not a refusal – again, that frustrating restraint. Hannibal is sure he does not make a sound, yet Will's eyes snap to his, wide and dark as though he had snarled.

He swallows again, licks his lips. "Would you even let me leave?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles, though it's not a happy expression. Fond, though. "Would you leave, if I let you?"

Will blinks, but shakes his head with no hesitation. "I'm not your plaything anymore," he says, harshly. "Not a puppet, or an experiment. I won't tolerate that."

"No," Hannibal says in agreement. "It was foolish of me to try." For a shadow of Will, a lifeless toy, an afterimage created in Hannibal's mind palace could never compare to the real thing, and the real thing is here, in his arms, flesh and blood and bone. And in his presence, Hannibal's creature is content.

Will smiles, faint, weary, but his eyes glow with joy. He lets out a sound, a purring, contented noise, and tilts his head up to offer another kiss – an offer Hannibal eagerly takes, and on his tongue he tastes no venom, no poison. He could happily drink from Will for the rest of his life.

"Will you stay?" he asks, one more time. He can see the fish swimming around his lure, nipping tentatively at the feathers and frills. But he has not bitten, yet – won't, not until Will agrees, or denies him one last time.

Will presses his lips together, his smile still there, and he nods. "I will if you will."

Hannibal laughs. Leans in and tugs the line, pulling his prey out of the water and into the new world. The next stage of his evolution. "Deal."

**Author's Note:**

> does jack find them? do the Muskrat crew catch them and take them back? do they run away into the sunset and set up happy murder husband life somewhere? that's for you to decide :D


End file.
